Father's Concern
by NewPaladin
Summary: The only person Vigarde can truly speak with is his dead wife.


This one is pretty old by now, because I completely forgot about it. Geez, brain. Anyway, I kinda want to write down what I believe Vigarde thought of Lyon and his magic. Though something feels off about this fic and I do not know why. It bugs me so much.

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><p>Grado Keep was grand, labyrinthine and badly illuminated at night. The stone corridors, long and high, swallowed the light before it could grow longer than an arm´s length. Even the lights the patrolling guards carried were almost useless.<p>

The sole shadow gliding through the corridors could hide from the light effortlessly. It was completely silent; even the tiny sounds its steps made on the ground died before they could reach the notice of others. The light of the torches on the wall was swallowed by its cloak, getting lost in the many folds. Like a ghost it hovered through the castle, ignored by the few people it met. They lowered their heads and quickened their pace when it passed. Down to the courtyard it went, through the small reception hall in the north-west to the area with the stables. It crossed it quickly – a few horses poked out their heads and regarded the shadow with mild interest. At the end of the yard, there was a small door, guarded by two men. They stiffened when they saw it approach.

"Good Evening, Emperor Vigarde," one of them said and both bowed. While one held a torch, the other quickly unlocked the door. Vigarde stopped only unwillingly and the men seemed to feel it. They jumped back as soon as the lock snapped open. They lined up, one holding open the door, with their gazes turned towards the ground. "Sir."

He slipped through the door, ducking his head, and his cloak almost got caught at the hand-high bottom of the door. The men closed the door behind him without locking it and the area seemed lighter than before.

Vigarde followed a path up to the mountain through a light forest of firs. The gravel crunched under his steps and yet the sound seemed muffled. The forest itself was silent; only rarely there was a mouse running over old leaves, or the cry of an owl, or the flapping of wings. When the gradient rose, Vigarde´s laboured breathing joined the few sounds; it was his only sound that could not be swallowed by his cloak.

The night was moonless and even after his eyes had grown accustomed to the little light, he could still barely see. But he didn't need to anyway; he knew the exact number of steps from the castle to the door of the mausoleum of the royal family. He knew that after 187 steps he reached the crossroad where the small foot path joined the broad street leading up the mountain. After 29 more steps there came the first two stern statues; Vigarde´s father and mother. He stopped for a second to bow to them respectfully. 3 steps behind them were the statues of his grandparents. Every time he walked this path he traced back his lineage, bowing his head under their hard gazes. He no longer tried to suppress the tiny pang of bitterness he felt at the thought that Minna still had no statue, just because he was still alive. After 146 steps the last two statues came, directly in front of the entrance of the mausoleum; the hero Grado and his wife Flavia, their expression kind and welcoming to Vigarde.

The royal mausoleum had been cut into the mountain. The entrance was decorated with pillars and two grim wyverns wound around the pillars embracing the door. The emblem of Grado crowned the broad iron door. Vigarde stopped in front of the door, pulled a big key out of his pocket and opened it. The door screeched when he pushed – he flinched. It revealed pure darkness. He took a tiny breath – the dark abyss always managed to smack respect into him – and made the first hesitant step.

The caskets were cut into the stone, two or three in a vertical row, all with personal, delicate carvings; flowers, wyverns, waves, weapons or knights, the sun, the moon and at the front end the profiles of the inhabitants. They slept in the darkness around Vigarde – old men, old women, young girls and boys alike. The number of caskets differed; one generation had six, another only three and another seven. Vigarde didn't need to see them; he knew exactly where they were. After 35 steps there were nine caskets, after 47 more there were two – a cousin continued the line then – and after 73 steps he passed his parents´ coffins. After five more steps, he stopped. Took a deep breath. Turned to the right and took one step. He sank to his knees and outstretched his arm, his finger searching for the familiar profile in the stone.

He sighed relieved when he found her, traced her nose and let his index finger fall to her lips. "Minna," he whispered and rested his head against the cold stone.

"I missed you." He settled comfortably against the wall, tucking his legs under himself and gathering his cloak beneath them so that he was not directly sitting on the cold stone. Absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over the lines in the stone, he started talking in a low voice.

"I've wanted to visit you yesterday, but I was ill again. When I woke up, I could barely breathe and felt dizzy the whole day. I managed to hide it most of the time, but I believe Lyon noticed something. He asked if I had taken my medicine. I did take it, but I believe it's not working anymore. I don't feel better anymore when I take it." He bit the inside of his cheek. "I..." He shook his head and closed his eyes, tracing Minna´s line of jaw with his thumb. "They still believe they can heal me. Lyon– Lyon pushes them endlessly. The healers told me. I–"

He trembled, his fingers clenched lightly. His breathing grew heavier and the coldness swept under his cloak and clothes, running up from his legs to his head. "Lyon is still studying magic. Dark magic." Vigarde opened his eyes again, blinking quickly, and swallowed hard. "I already told you, remember? I... I still don't like it. He showed me today what he has learned. He cast a dark spell on a practice dummy. You– you should have seen what happened to it. I can barely describe it."

Vigarde shuddered. "No, it is better that you didn't see it. It only would've frightened you. I won't tell you." He took a deep breath and forced a shaky smile on his face. "But he is strong. He has grown strong. I didn't think he would, but he is. He is..." Vigarde´s gaze fell, his expression slowly growing stony.

The smile fought hard, but the corners of Vigarde´s mouth fell. "I only wish... that he would have a... different kind of strength." His tongue flickered over his dry, cold lips. "He doesn't even need to wield a sword. I would already be content if he had taken up a different kind of magic, like anima. But dark magic..." Vigarde suppressed a shudder. "Dark magic is evil. It's horrifying. I'm– I'm concerned about Lyon. What if he... what if the magic changes him? Father McGregor has told me much about dark magic and what it does to people. He warned me about it when Lyon started to learn dark magic. I told him I was not interested in his opinion – I was too harsh, I know – and protected Lyon from him, but... maybe I should've listened."

He sighed shakily. "I'm... I'm afraid of Lyon sometimes. I try to shut up the men who talk bad about him and his magic, but I... feel like I'm lying. I agree with them. I want him to stop. I believe that it's bad for him and Grado. But he... looks so happy when he studies magic." Vigarde blinked quickly, but his eyes still grew hazy and moist. "He doesn't look happy often. I don't want to take this away from him." Vigarde tried to force his mouth to form more words, but it refused. His jaws clenched together tightly and he curled up.

He took deep breaths, but his body still shook, his throat still itched, his lungs still protested; the coughing fit rolled over him and left him breathless and powerless when it finally subsided.

"I'm sorry, dear," he pressed out when he finally could swallow the cold, stale air again. "I'm fine." With trembling fingers, he searched for her face in the stone and the shaking only grew less when he found her. "I'm fine," he repeated, his voice hoarse and low. "I tried to tell Lyon my fears, but I couldn't. I can never find the right words when I'm with him, so I only ask what he is doing. Or if he is feeling well. I– I'm sorry, Minna. I wish I could talk with him. He is my son. My only son and I love him and fear him. I wish you were still here. You would know what to do, wouldn't you? You would help us. You could heal... heal whatever went wrong. You would slap me for fearing him."

A choked laugh that sounded like strange sob resounded in the cave. "Ah, I'm sorry, Minna. The thought of you slapping me is..." A tired, but honest smile tugged at Vigarde´s mouth. He sobered quickly, though. "I miss you, Minna. I love you." He traced her face again, from her forehead to her nose and then to her mouth. His fingers remained there for a moment, stroking it. Then he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss against the cold lips. "I promise to do better, yes? It's what you would want, isn't it...?" He waited for a minute and then stood up, chiding himself for hoping for some sort of sign. He did it every time and the result was always the same; deafening silence. "Goodbye, Minna..." He turned slowly and walked out, avoiding to gaze at his ancestors´ tombs. When he stepped into the cold, cloudless night, he shivered; he no longer wondered why he felt warmer in a grave than under the bare sky. Pulling his cloak around him tightly, he started his descend, the stale smell of death clinging to his robes.


End file.
